MARTHA WOULD NOT APPROVE

I woke up this fine autumn morning thinking about my kids when they were little and how they used to love decorating the house with me for the current holiday. I thought when they got older they would think it strange want me to stop, but just the opposite happened. I didn't decorate one year for a holiday and they wanted to know if I was dying. They missed the candles the most, always the candles.

Fourth of July meant American flags everywhere, on tables and the flower beds, red, white and blue table clothes adorning the kitchen and dining room tables. St. Patrick’s Day saw Green Eggs and Ham for breakfast, green confetti all over the floors, sticking to their pajama feet. What a mess to clean up, but well worth the fun. I usually threw a big party to coincide with my birthday. The house would be packed and we always had a great time, Irish music blaring, singing Dady Brothers in my living room before I knew one. Easter was the time of bunnies, baskets and candy. The mantle would boast tacky looking little angels, taffeta and colored eggs and the aroma of fresh baked Easter bread would waft through the house. My daughter-in-law has continued that tradition.

Thanksgiving and Christmas had the more traditional decor. Since I had more time, I tried my hand at Martha like decor, trying to create wreaths and centerpieces. Martha would not have approved. I wasn't very successful, kept burning my fingers on the glue gun, but it was an experience to both remember and avoid. I settled on buying fresh green wreaths, the smell of balsam drifting everywhere. The lights were hung outside and the snow always made the finishing touch, a light dusting on the illumination of the frame of a party house.

But the Mother of all holiday decorating endeavors was Halloween. I decorated for the holiday like there was no tomorrow, pulling out all the stops. I'd dress up as a witch, donning a long black dress, green paint on my face and hands, and a big pointy black hat. It was truly a time to bring out the kid in me. I think my children had as much fun as I did preparing for the big night. Some years we would tape a mini play to be broadcasted throughout the neighborhood, complete with sound effects and maniacal laughter in the background. I knew it was getting a little too intense when the younger kids wouldn't turn up my walk. Chains rattling and were wolves howling, I started saving that for the bigger kids, later in the evening. The little ones would dance to One Eyed Purple People Eater, Thriller and Monster Mash. The neighbors always got a kick out of it.

Pumpkins carved and set in the front of the house, my teenagers got into it as they got older, helping me hand out the candy and dressing up to scare. Music blaring from the house, I would meet the little goblins at the end of the driveway. The recognition would light up their faces, “Oh it's her again, the crazy witch lady!” Grabbing fast to their parent’s hand, some of them wouldn't even come to the end of the driveway. “Mama, that lady is scary, lets go to the next one!” Other parents looked forward to it along with their little ghosts and Indian princesses, murmuring to themselves “Wow, she outdid herself this time.” Candles everywhere, music screaming, they would give me a knowing wink or a hug, and which I know meant “Thanks for being silly, you did it again, a regular scare fest.”

The house is long gone and the kids have grown up, moved to new houses of their own in other places, making memories of their own for the grandchildren. But I like to think they know that the crazy lady still lives, alive and kicking and still 12 years old in her heart. I’ll do you proud, kids.

Remember the laughter and imagine the pumpkins. I'll be waiting for you.